


Hot Time in the Town of Berlin

by fishingclocks



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Alternate Universe - World War II, M/M, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 02:25:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7295779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishingclocks/pseuds/fishingclocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Major,” Sackett said, “Agent Culper has been compromised.”</p><p>“Ah,” Ben said. “Shit.” <i>Goddammit</i>, Abe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hot Time in the Town of Berlin

**Author's Note:**

> !! this is. such a self-indulgent piece. i have #noregerts
> 
> updates will be finicky but i will def finish this bro _def_

Two rooms are cordoned off from the rest in the hall where Ben stands—people in stark white attire that send him reassuring, pitying smiles—falling epically short of their goal of comfort—bustle between them, clutching at clipboards and trying to lower their voices so he won’t hear what they’re discussing.

Not fifteen minutes ago a woman, her long hair pinned safely on top of her head, and pleasant freckles contrasting the attempt at a stern expression on her nervous face, had tried to convince Ben that he needed a room of his own.

Bitterly, Ben had safely assured her that he was very well—however, his friends, as she could see, were most certainly not, and he would appreciate it if she would focus her valued efforts on someone who actually needed them? Later, Ben knows he’ll regret that—the stricken expression on the girl’s face as she hurried off, the sharp tone of his voice addressing her. But even now, Ben feels as though his capacity for _caring_ at the moment has been siphoned out of him, and stored safely away in two rooms, reeking with the scent of detergent and antiseptic.

“Major Tallmadge?” says a nurse, older and much less finicky than the one before him—much more difficult to scare off, he thinks, cursing inwardly. He’s been standing in this hallway for what must have been two, three hours now; he won’t give up his post for a semi-uncomfortable cot, needles, and too many questions.

“Yes?” Ben sighs, bracing himself.

The nurse looks incredibly unimpressed with his theatrics. “Beg pardon, sir,” he says, in an unhurried Southern drawl, out of place in the predominantly New England-staff Ben had encountered so far, “but some people are here to see you.”

“Ah,” says Ben. That was… not what he’d expected.

Again, the nurse seems to just _barely_ refrain himself from a put-upon sigh. Ben doesn’t know whether to be offended or straighten his back and apologize for his exceedingly rude behavior, sir. “If you’ll follow me?” says the nurse, and Ben has no choice but to do as he’s asked.

-

Sackett’s voice is calm, quiet, as he asks Ben if he’d like to take a seat. Wordlessly, Ben does.

They’re in an office—Ben nearly laughs at the thought of Sackett knocking on some unlucky kid’s door, telling them in no uncertain terms to split, before he got President Washington himself to personally see them fired—in the back of the building, which appears to have been built to hold a minimum of three people, and is currently inhabiting seven.

Abigail and Anna look like they desperately want to hug him, ask what happened, console him if he needs it—Ben thinks the prospects of a hug haven’t ever sounded so sweet. In between the women is seated Hewlett, who Ben has only met once, but respects greatly. Of all the SIS agents Ben has had the displeasure of meeting, Hewlett seems the least unpleasant.

Behind the three of them stand two men. Ben doesn’t recognize them, but they’re _obviously_ SIS agents. Their air reeks of British pretention.

And of course there’s Sackett, settled comfortably into an armchair in the corner—his gaze isn’t hard, nor disappointed, but it _is_ appraising, and far more sober than Ben has grown used to.

“Major Tallmadge,” says Sackett, “would you tell us all why _exactly_ you are not currently resting?”

Ben’s teeth grit. “All due respect, sir, but I don’t need it—I’m more than fit to give my report.”

Sackett’s small sight let’s Ben know that his answer had been all too expected. “ _Well_ then, Major,” he said, “let’s get on with it, shall we?”

-

Two weeks ago, June 13, 1942, and the first thing Ben clearly remembered about the day was a sudden heat wave hitting in the four minutes between getting out of his car and walking through the front door.

The heat had been _abysmal_ ; climbing well above 80 degrees and hovering there, and in the well-pressed confines of his suit—something that Caleb swears up and down is _unrequired_ in the bylaws of the agency, even though everyone either ignores him or at this point simply doesn’t care—begins to sweat. Which, really, is the automatic precursor to a bad mood.

This may have been a contributing factor, Ben thinks, to his less-than-charitable mood. When Ben entered the office, slightly damp and blood roaring for a fight, to see Sackett, sitting at his desk, and chuckling over a newspaper, he’d let out such a long, heaving sigh.

“And a lovely morning to you as well,” said Sackett, because Sackett is, and always will be, an ass.

“Sir,” Ben said, because _he_ is a good person and _respectful_ towards authority.

While they’re in earshot.

“Why, exactly, are you in my chair?”

“Do you know, boy, the most powerful of sentiments a person can feel?” Sackett asked, lightly, like Ben hadn’t said a thing. He’s been using the excuse of his ‘hearing gone to the dogs, I tell you, the _dogs_ ,’ for all the time that Ben has known him—conveniently, this malady seems to disappear just when he needs to hear Ben mouthing off under his breath, or whispering to Caleb about plans for later, or both.

Still, Ben bit down on another sigh, and levelly, he’d said, “I personally would say ‘love,’ sir, but knowing you, you’re leading up to the opposite of that sentiment—“

“It’s _fear_ , boy.”

“…Of course it is, sir.”

“Bah.” Sackett gestured vaguely in Ben’s direction. “Naysay all you want, I only speak the truth.”

Ben then decided that he would need a seat for this conversation to continue. And a cigarette. He’d pulled up a stiff-backed guest’s seat across from Sackett, and indulged in both. “For the sake of time, I’ll say that I believe you. Where were you leading with this?”

Sackett looked down at the paper in his hands, and chuckled again. “Take a look for yourself,” he’d said, sliding it across the ( _his_ ) desk.

“Is your vision fading too now, sir?”

“Just _read_ the damn thing.”

Sighing, Ben lit a cig, and did. “’Germans Murder 700,000 Jews in Poland: Travelling Gas Chambers.’ Sir, with respect, I’m intimately familiar with Nazi movements—in case you’d forgotten, I’m a military spy.”

“You and your damn mouth—look at it, boy. When we inform the press on the war, what do we do? Phrase it as gently and delicately as we possibly can. But what do they do? Turn around and try to whip the public into a goddamn frenzy, that’s what they do. No one knows fear as well as the press, boy. They’ve built an empire on it.”

Ben… saw his point. Smoke slipped between his lips, quick and billowing, and he ignored the roll of Sackett’s eyes. “I understand what you’re trying to get at. What I don’t understand is the practical application?”

“I was just reading the paper and was reminded of our current situation.”

“Situation?”

“Major,” Sackett said, “Agent Culper has been compromised.”

“Ah,” Ben said. “Shit.” _Goddammit,_ Abe.

-

“…then he opens the conversation with this _monologue_ about fear and newspapers—I think he was trying to be clever and forgot where he was going halfway.”

From his place at the table, tinkering with some gas-mask fresh from R&D, Caleb snorted. “The old man’s split, Tallboy—probably tryina rile you up. With success, too,” he pointed out, nodding to where Ben was pacing on a cheap, exotic area rug—Caleb tended to pick up ‘souvenirs’ from his missions; his neighbors were incredibly convinced that he was a smuggler.

Not that Ben could particularly blame them—maybe it was the demeanor, or the full, unconventional beard, or the twinkle in his eye with every smile that spoke to a well of mischief that had never quite died out, but there was something about Caleb Brewster that tended to either put people at ease, or chill their blood—most likely depending on his mood.

Of course, Ben falls into that first camp. He may have passed it off to Sackett as ‘informing him of the current situation,’ but as soon as all the necessary paperwork had been filled, Ben had made a beeline for the Brewster house. It didn’t matter that the first three hours there hadn’t even been spent discussing work—while Uncle Lucas was up and about they tended not to discuss business matters—not that he wasn’t privy to the entire ‘government spy’ thing, because he, on some level, most _assuredly_ was, but because Caleb didn’t want to worry him. Ben respected that.

It was also comforting, oddly, to just talk with the Brewsters. While he and Lucas discussed sports—which Ben kept no record of, and of which Lucas was always delighted to inform him—or Caleb’s most recent misadventures, in the den, Caleb would be in the kitchen fixing up the radio, or leaning over Lucas’ shoulder to assure Ben with a smug grin that _he_ had won that bet, and it had been _completely_ worth the shiner. When Ben had arrived he’d been very near smashing things from stress, but four hours later and he was reduced to simple pacing in the hallway—a miracle, truly.

“So,” says Caleb, “I’m expecting you’ll want me to run clean-up over with the Krauts, yeah?”

Ben hummed, staring into middle-distance. “Most likely. You’re the only agent we have that isn’t on a vital mission. But that also means that I’ll likely have to fill in as your partner.”

And suddenly the atmosphere was the furthest thing from relaxed.

“What?” demanded Caleb. He stood up and ran a stained cloth over his hands—what he was doing that required greasing up a gas-mask, Ben didn’t want to know. “You’re _Head of Intelligence_ now, Ben—you don’t _do_ field work.”

Ben just shrugged. He’d been expecting a response like this. “I do now.”

“What about Abigail? Or Anna? With Abe gone she won’t need to be a handler…”

The concern in Caleb’s eye was enough to chip away at his affected calm, frustration suddenly running scalding through his veins. “Just because I’ve been off the field for a few months—“

“A few months? It’s been two years!”

“That doesn’t mean I’ve up and _forgotten_ everything, Caleb, I am _capable_ —“

“I know you’re _capable_ Ben, that’s not what I’ve been saying!”

And Ben… paused.

Closed his eyes.

Reined his temper in.

“I know it isn’t. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—take out my frustration on you.” They were close, now. When Ben opened his eyes, Caleb’s were open, searching; for _what_ Ben… didn’t know. A hand just gently brushed up against his, Ben tilted his head and said, “Sackett was… going to call us in later. To run over the details.”

There was almost an audible snap as the tension broke.

Caleb stepped back to the table, laughed, sat back down.

Ben was content to move on.

“So Benny-boy,” Caleb said, picking up the mask again. “Who d’you think did it, then?”

“Well,” he started, carefully choosing his words. “There’s really no way to be certain until we’ve retrieved hard evidence—“ as Ben’s words lulled Caleb looked like he’d start arguing again, so he held up a hand and started pacing again, “ _but_ , given the amount of security on the project, it’s safe to say that either we have a leak, or…”

Caleb’s eyes widened. “You think it was an inside job.”

“I never _said_ that,” Ben warned, but he couldn’t hold back a little smirk at Caleb’s outright enthusiasm. “But since Abe’d been working closely with Hewlett, he and Anna are being pulled from the field for questioning and clarity of information.”

“D’you think it was that bastard Simcoe?” The words were said with such venom that Ben had to hide a wince. He remembered well last years… incident between the two.

“Maybe,” he allowed—a good, positive answer, without affirming Caleb’s suspicions, to get his hopes up.

And for the moment, they fell silent. From his place back in the hall, Ben watched as Caleb’s hands fidgeted, like they always did when he was thinking. His fingers were calloused, oil from the gas-mask project caught for the moment in the creases of his joints, and Ben’s mind was drawn back to memories of all the times he’d caught those hands in his own, a gesture to remind Caleb that he wasn’t alone—it had started when they were in school together, and Caleb had picked at the skin around his fingernails while studying. Ben remembered stilling his fidgeting, murmuring that Caleb should _really_ stop doing that. He had; but the gesture stayed.

Eventually, Caleb’s brow furrowed, and he said, “They’re just gonna let us waltz in there then, the folks at MI6? Even if it might be one of us that’s the mole?”

“Since Abe was our only man under in Berlin, I imagine we’ll be given the benefit of the doubt here,” Ben explained, leaning against the doorway with a sigh. “Unless someone calls for a formal investigation—in which case the agent in question will most likely be removed from the case and put on probation until… further notice.”

“I’m sure Rogers’d love to see that happen to you. You’ve never been face to _face_ and the bastard hates you.”

“Luckily? They won’t likely let that happen. Not two weeks after Abe started collaboration with MI6 and he goes missing? This is the Brits’ fault, and they know it.”

Caleb snorted. “More like ‘forced’ collaboration, but I get the gist.”

“Disrespectful to speak ill of the likely-dead, Caleb.”

“Abe’ll pull through. He’s never died on us before.” Caleb sounded so sure. Ben wished dearly that he could find it in himself to believe him. “So then.”

Ben hummed inquisitively, crossing his arms.

“When do we leave?” Caleb asked, resigned.

Ben only responded with a grin.

**Author's Note:**

> (the title is from a very real wwii era song by bing crosby and the andrews sisters of the same name) (there is also a lyric that says 'hey, can i join in? ;)' ) (and i am c a ck l ing)
> 
> as it's my first time writing for this fandom, i'd love to hear what you thought!!! <3


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